Sup Nate Love Katie
by Innocent Magic
Summary: This is the story of Katie, formerly known as Posh Spice, as she outlines her life in a series of 'letters' to her deceased brother, Nate. Since his death her life has taken drastic changes and this is how she deals with them, without her former friends.
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N _**This is my very first School of Rock fan fiction, written simply because I couldn't find many Katie/Zach stories out there, and they're my all time favourite SoR couple. If you like it, review. If you hate it, please review anyway. I don't want to sound needy or anything; it just makes me smile when people leave proof that they've read my work :)

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Dear Diary,

Urgh, I hate the word diary, and the word dear. I'm going to call you Nate from now on, so I can pretend I'm writing to my brother again. So, 'sup Nate? How are things going up there? I bet you're hanging out with all the angels, seducing them and everything, just like old times.

Things are pretty much the same down here: I'm still living at Sundale because it seems no one wants to adopt a fifteen year old punk rocker; mum still drops by now and again to cry to me as her latest fling left her again; and I still haven't made any friends at my new school. I miss those days, when we were little and attended Horace Green, and I was in that band, School of Rock. Do you remember Mr Schneebly, or Dewey as we later called him? I miss him as well.

I miss Summer, who was my obsessive compulsive best friend. I miss Freddie, my ADD ridden science partner, who would frequently add his own chemicals into the mix so as to 'see what would happen'. Remember how I would be sent home every other week to clean myself up, and you would have to help me deal with the strangely coloured concoctions splattered artistically about my person? I miss Zach Attack, who was so quiet and shy around almost everyone but Freddie and myself, and who could play such amazing things on the guitar. I think he was my first crush, until I got over myself in sixth grade. I miss Lawrence, the classical musician, who blended in perfectly with our image: we were all misfits to ordinary society. There were then Alicia, with her 'from-the-block' attitude and braces, Tomika, who was cruelly dubbed 'Turkey Sub' by Mr S, though he claimed it was all in good humour, and the rest of the crew. Maybe that's why we all used to get along so well: none of us thought we'd ever fit in.

So, merry Christmas and all that jazz. Tasha bought me this diary as a gift. I think she feels sorry for me since I'm her 'most troubled' patient. She told me that I had to write down any and every feeling I experience each day, and to report back to her with the results. Perhaps she's given up. I hope not. She's the only person left who has yet to give up on me. I like the idea that there is still one person left who cares about me. Since you were taken away, and since mum decided she couldn't cope with me on top of the heartache, I've become a lot more independent and self-reliant, but I still childishly hold on to the notion that everything is okay if someone loves you. Stupid and naïve, I know, but I can't help it.

I told Tasha my theory a few weeks ago, in a moment of incredible weakness, and do you know what she did? She laughed and told me it was 'cute' and that she thought it would be beneficial for me to join the local church. The thing is, I don't want to be loved by a floating spirit thing – I want someone to make me feel safe, someone to hold me and comfort me when I'm crying, like you used to do. I suppose that would be a bit odd now though; I haven't cried since that day, and I don't think I ever will again. It's a weakness, and Katie Anne Brown does not show weakness to anyone.

Anyway, I doubt you want to listen to my depressing ramblings anymore, do you Nate? Do you want to see how much your little sister has changed since you've been gone? You might be a bit surprised. My hair was so long it was irritating me every time I tried to look for you in the sky so I cut it off. Not all of it, just enough so that it now falls to just below my shoulders. It looks quite nice, so Tasha has told me. It's still brown – I couldn't bear to dye over it because it's one of the last reminders I have of you – but I've put a few more streaks of red in it. It ties in with my whole 'punk-rocker' persona. My eyes are still the same bright blue, but I they're quite a bit duller now, so much so that sometimes I mistake them to be grey. I've grown another inch or so these past few months, so I'd almost reach up to your shoulder, being that I'm now a triumphant five feet six inches, of which I'm rather proud. My skin has lost it's natural Korean tan, and Tasha keeps on berating me for getting so pale, but in all honesty it's _not my fault. _She also keeps going on at me about my weight, which dropped substantially after I first moved in, due to the fact that I rarely held any appetite, and was getting by on one or two apples a day - at least they kept the doctor away. See, I still possess that oh so amazing wit you loved, so I'm not some depressed ninny. If I had someone to talk to then they would see that I can still, on occasion, be the upbeat and perky Katie I always was.

Oh, and you'd appreciate my new wardrobe, Nate. I spent my entire allowance on black skinnies, black and red tops, black converses and knee high boots, black skirts, red jumpers and the like. It's been chilly outside lately, what with it being Winter and all, so I sometimes wear your old sweaters around the house. Don't worry, I have yet to spill paint or orange juice on your beloved Guns 'N' Roses hoodie.

Apparently not many people approve of my new look though. Yesterday I ran into some old classmates of mine, ones who attended Horace Green High with me, outside the grocery store, and they ganged up on me, cornering me and teasing me, occasionally hitting me. They stole one of my shoes the freaks. I had to complete the shopping in one boot and one knee-high sock. It wasn't so much the embarrassment of the situation that got to me though, more the fact that one member of that gang was Freddie, _my _Freddie, the same Freddie who jammed with me all day and all night when we were bored. I almost cried, I swear I did, but I am _not weak_. No matter how many times people may tell me I am, I know that I'm not. If I were I would have given up months ago, but I'm still here, strong and fighting and more in control of my life that anyone gives me credit for. I won't ever give in, Nate, even if it would mean I would get to see you sooner, I promise I won't give in.

Good night bro,

Love Katie xox

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**_A/N _**So, what did you think? That's only the first chapter, and was written in like half an hour on a whim, but I promise there will be more to come very soon. First, though, I think I shall go and watch the movie again so as to gain back my muse :)

Take care,

Innocent Magic


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** So, here's chapter two of Katie's diary/letters to Nate. I'm on a roll today, what with two chapters in twelve hours, but somehow this story has gotten to me. I'm nowhere near done, but I've essentially mapped out the rest of the story, which puts a smile on my face. Do you know what else would put a smile on my face? Reviews. you know you love them too, so any chance you'd help a girl out? I'm just kidding; obviously, I'm not going to resort to guilt trips and bribrary, unless it would work...? Hahaa, jokes :)

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'Sup Nate,

I haven't written in you for a few days because there hasn't been much interesting to say. Now, however, we're back at school again, so I can assure you drama galore, just how you like it. It's been a long day, I can tell you that. I'm so tired and the only thing I really want to do at the moment is get to my guitar. I still have the one you bought me all those years ago. I remember when you persuaded Zach to teach me, bribing him with over fifty packets of jelly babies. He always was a sucker for jelly babies, as we you. Is that why you got on so well? I often wondered how you and him considered yourselves friends, what with the five year age gap, but I never thought to question it. Guess I'll never find out now.

So, around four o'clock this morning Cassie woke me up by toddling into my room screaming about a wet blanket or something. She's seven years old, and moved in a few days after myself. I think she's chosen me as a proxy mother to her, being as I'm the eldest one here aside from the actual staff, who rarely have time for her as an individual. It's become a regular occurrence, her waking me up in the small hours of the morning, asking if I could change her sheets before the staff realise she's done it again. She gets in trouble every time she does, you see, because they blame it on her for drinking a glass of milk before she goes to bed. Personally, I don't see what the problem is. She drinks the milk because her father always took milk and cookies with her at bedtime before he died. She wets the bed when she has nightmares about the crash in which he did. I don't mind Cassie coming to me, regardless of the hour, because it's a nice feeling when someone relies on you to 'make the monsters go away'.

When I got to school this morning, I realised I had left my book bag and all my books on the counter back at the home, meaning I had no notes and no homework to take with me to lessons. Ms Harrogate was busy this morning, something about a rich benefactor coming to view the building and talk to us 'children' after school tomorrow, and the masses of paperwork that accompanied the situation. Each teacher I met accepted my story; I've never lied to them before and I uphold a 3.6 GPA. They still felt the need to allocate me various punishments though, ranging from handing out sheets to after school litter duty. That's always a bundle of laughs, isn't it, collecting crisp packets in my free time with future drug dealers and mafia-members. Okay, maybe I'm taking it a _bit _too far there, but seriously! Mr Matthews actually dared to ask me to complete an extra credit assignment to make up for the fact that I didn't write the essay I was meant to, when I had, and may I just say that I was very proud of it. We had to compare two pieces of literature, one pre- and one post-1900. I chose Emma, of course, and Nineteen Eighty-Four. It's your fault, you know, since you were the one who bought me those amazing Austin novels for my twelfth birthday, so don't you go shaking your head at me. When he said to chose a book post-1900, I knew it had to be Orwell's one, simply because it was _yours_. Does that make me sad? I bet you're so smug right now, laughing at the fact that you even affected my reading preferences. Still, I'm going to confront dear Mr Matthews tomorrow, with the proper essay.

There was a great commotion at lunch – two idiot eleventh graders were fighting over a blond slut. Proper, actual fist-fighting. Who does that anymore? And the girl in question wasn't even worth much, all peroxide, extensions and fake tan. She's your typical oompa loompa drama queen. Well that got broken up pretty quickly, but the principal then proceeded to lecture the rest of us, who were simply trying to get through lunch without being mocked or attacked, of not attempting to break up the fight. I love the unfairness of that school. I remember you coming home and telling me of the smart ass remarks you used to make when your teachers went off like that, and the number of detentions they gave for it in return. I also remember how you'd always finish with a smile on your face and tell me it was worth it. Myself? I can't be asked to talk back at teachers – it just gets you attention, something I have more than enough of as it is.

I do have some news you'll find interesting though, Nate. On my way to gym (eurgh!) I saw a flyer for interschool Battle of the Bands auditions, in which every school in the local area will participate. Naturally, being the music lover that I am, I dropped by to have a look after school, seeing as how the location was on my way home anyway. You'll never guess who I ran into there, quite literally. Okay, maybe you will, as this is the dramatically clichéd and ever predictable life of Katie Ann Brown. I'll stop rambling now and just tell you: School of Rock. What do you make of that then, eh? Their close friend suddenly drops of the radar and they continue, _with a new bassist! _

We met as I was leaving, having seen enough oompa loompa wannabe pop stars. I was listening to music so as to cleanse my ears and, as such, didn't notice my former friends walking the opposite way until I had walked right into Zach. He hasn't changed at all since I saw him a few months ago; he's still six foot and still has dark hair and dark eyes, with high cheek bones and a thin frame. I don't think he recognised me at all, which is nice of him. I honestly haven't changed that much, have I? First Freddie, now Zach. So I said hello, being the polite person I am (I can see you rolling your eyes up there now, Nate, and telling your angel-girls of how modest your sister is), and they said hello back to me, very stiffly, treating me just the same as they do their fan girls at Horace Green High. I miss them, I really do. Do you think they miss me at all?

The stars have finally come out from behind those pesky storm clouds, so I'm going to climb up on the roof now. I'll talk to you tomorrow, Nate.

Good night,

Love Katie xox

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**A/N **Tada! Next chapter: the inspector comes to talk to the residents at Sundale, and Katie is in for a suprise. Let me know what y'all think, if you have a chance :)

Take care,

Innocent Magic.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N **Hey again everyone. So, firstly, I am so so so so so so so so so sorry that it's taken me this long to write this chapter. I just keep losing inspiration, not to mention I got a new laptop that refuses to work ¬¬

Thank you so much to my reviewers: Alexis, ConradKCat, abby245, silenaandbeckendorf4ever and Larcarnum Inflamarae. Your reviews made me all mushy inside haha... and reminded me that I really should stop being lazy and get back to planning out a plot. I've changed the plot almost completely now because I got caught up in the conversation between Katie and the benefactor, but if you've any suggestions for things I can add in, they'd be much appreciated.

Hope this chapter's worth the wait.

Oh, and I in no way own School of Rock because Dewey is not my best friend lol.

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'Sup Nate,

It's late now, and I really should be at least _thinking_ of falling asleep, but I need to get this off my chest and out of my mind. Okay, so I think I mentioned before that Sundale was going to get a visit from a rich benefactor, yeah? Well, we did, and boy was it eventful.

The benefactor arrived not long after the little ones returned home from elementary, which is chaotic at the best of times. I was late home as well thanks to Mr Matthews and his refusal to accept my essay, so as soon as I rushed through the door, Tasha literally pounced. Don't laugh, Nate, it was actually terrifying having her leap out from nowhere. She was almost, almost, angry with me for being late on such an important day to the house, but this is Tasha, so she never really got past 'a little bit annoyed'. I do appreciate her, honest – sometimes it's just hard to take her serious. Such as when she comes at you, followed by seven or eight grubby little children, brandishing a mop and a dust cloth and declaring that she's punishing you with chores and babysitting. It took a huge effort on my part to keep a straight face; I'm thinking I should have a go at playing poker one day with my skills.

Anyway, I had to clean the residency and get all the little ones looking smart for when the benefactor would be given the grand tour and get to meet the darlings. Please note my intensive sarcasm. It took me all of half an hour to complete the task seeing as Tasha had probably spent the whole day making the place spotless already. Everything was fine and I was honestly beginning to think it would be safe to retreat to my room for some music therapy after my less-that-amazing reintroduction to Zach & Co. It was when I was lining up the munchkins that someone decided it'd be fun to burst my bubble and inform me that the benefactor wanted to talk to me as well.

So, I had to traipse upstairs to my room in the attic - it took a lot of bargaining, including vowing to do three times as many household tasks, to get such a large room all to myself, but it's so worth it – and change into something 'presentable'. Scoff if you feel the need, as that's what I did. Anyone who dared venture into my mess of a closet would be hard pressed to find anything considered by respectable society to be acceptable. Nevertheless, I pulled on my nicest, least punk-infected outfit and went to meet whatever fool was funding this establishment.

That's when the surprises began. Of all the people to visit and give money to Sundale, I had never expected it to be the mother of one of my former best friends... Mrs Annette Hathaway. Yes, you may cue the creepy dun-dun-duns.

She had me sit down at the dining room table, which was in itself a strange sight - the table is splattered with paint of different colours and sizes, while Mrs Hathaway is an almost formidably prim and proper businesswoman, dressed immaculately in a black skirt and white shirt. It took a fair bit of effort on my part not to laugh at the absurdity of my situation, although it was made easier by the realisation that the woman didn't recognise me. I had been her daughter's best friend for over ten years, yet in the five months I had been a Sundale, she'd completely forgotten me. Or so it seemed at that point in time.

Our conversation was much like that with every other benefactor who came to see the fruit of their 'generosity': she asked me how I enjoyed Sundale; how long I'd been staying in the dump; what I did in my spare time; and general small talk. Then she looked at my files, really looked at them, not just a hasty search for my name and age.

"Katherine Ann Brown," she said, more to herself then to me, "Daughter of Nicole Brown nee Welsh and Martin Brown, sibling of the late Nathaniel Brown.' She glanced up at my face for a moment, returned her gaze to the files, and then did a double take. I couldn't contain my smirk any longer at the poor woman's confusion. After several disconcerting minutes, in which the obviously flustered woman scrutinised every little inch of my face, a frown marred her otherwise pretty features (for someone over fifty, anyway).

"Nathaniel... died?" she asked tentatively. Sorry bro', apparently the news of your departure hasn't spread to the alumni yet, though I'm sure it will be hot gossip amongst the oldies tomorrow. At least she'd finally recognised me, even if it had taken the mention of your name to get her attention. She took my hand, which had been playing with a particularly fresh patch of paint on the wood of the table, and gave it what she'd probably meant to be a comforting squeeze. In all honesty, I'm kind of getting used to your being gone by now. Of course, I still miss you like mad, still cry at night when something reminds me of you, still wear your clothes alongside mine to keep you in mind at all times. But I'm past the stage where the mere mention of your name causes me to break down completely.

I don't think that fact made any sense to Mrs Hathaway – how had I been friends with Summer for so long and yet never felt comfortable enough to call the woman before me 'Annette'? – for her eyes narrowed at me in a sense of disgust. I stared right back into her cold, dark orbs, daring her to make some sort of degrading comment. She did. I should be a seer or something.

"This is where you ended up then?" she questioned, and I could the mocking in her voice, "I heard your mother refused rehab. I suppose you're aiming to follow in her dirty little footsteps?" That last comment had been made as Mrs Hathaway took in my appearance. Like I said, I chose my 'most normal' outfit, as Tasha likes to call it, that basically includes a black skinny jeans, red converses (knock-offs, obviously, since my allowance comes to about $10 month), and a ACDC band-tee. Okay, so it's not that normal in comparison to the clothes most other sixteen year olds wear, but it's almost completely colourless, which Tasha has deemed a good thing. Insert eye-roll at the idiocy and the need to conform that comes with adulthood.

"Yes," I replied innocently, "My mother and I decided that it would be better for me to stay here for a while. It's taught me a lot about responsibility and about life itself. I think I'd like to be a social worker when I'm older actually, rather than a dancer like my mother, who is in fact still considering whether, or not rehab would be any more beneficial to her health than the meetings she attends regularly with her grief counsellor." I sat back in my chair with a smug smile playing on my lips, waiting for the woman to make her next move. It had suddenly turned into a game, and I was proud, though not surprised, to say I was winning.

"Still as polite as ever Katie," was the response that came, none to easily, from thin and tightly closed lips, "Glad to see you haven't forgotten the teachings of Horace Green whilst slumming downtown with these uneducated vagrants." Her bigoted words caused my eyes to widen in shock and in horror. How could she say such things about these people?

"How can you dare talk about these people with such disdain?" I exclaimed, just about stopping myself from getting out of my seat and knocking some sense and respect into her prejudiced permed head. "These people," I went on, my voice now a little lower so as not to attract the attention of the adults flitting around the other rooms, "Devote their time to looking after children abandoned by their parents, or teenagers who want to give their mother time to grieve properly but have no one else to stay with. These 'uneducated vagrants' try to do something good for a world that's being destroyed by narrow-minded businesspeople and politicians like yourself, no offence _ma'am_." My anger was getting the better of me again, but I remembered the ways you'd calm me down, Nate, before the accident of course. I took several deep breaths, in and out, in and out. Then I took a moment to enjoy the delicate shade of purple Mrs Hathaway was turning.

"Katherine," she began, her tone slightly menacing. Her steely grey eyes met my own and she stopped. I heard her take a breath before muttering something incomprehensible to herself. "Katherine," this time her voice was softer, although it still held its ever-present sternness, "You honestly thought you had nowhere to stay. You've been my daughter's best friend since your first days at school. We'd have been glad to have given you a room."

I found it hard to maintain eye contact with the suddenly motherly figure sitting across the table from me - I felt too embarrassed by my decisions. "The thought never occurred to me Mrs Hathaway," I replied sincerely, "For me, this was the only option. Social workers get paid to give me a home; had I appeared on your doorstep sans two relatives, you would have felt obligated to let me stay. I didn't want to be a burden to anyone." Cautiously, I raised my gaze from my hands, which were twisting nervously in my lap, to the austere benefactor, to find said woman with tears in her eyes.

"Katie, you always were too selfless," she told me softly. To say I was shocked by the change in Mrs Hathaway's demeanour would be an understatement. What had happened to the ruthless businesswoman that had insulted everyone without a trust fund just moments ago?

With the grace of a ballerina, she stood from her chair and embraced me in a bone-shattering hug. "You are far too thin, Katherine," she announced, trying to hide her softer, more maternal side from public view, I think. "It is unseemly for a woman to imitate a pencil lead." A grin graced my features, and hers too, I believe, though far more subtle, of course.

"I shall have Maria prepare you a suitable meal for when we arrive home," she went on to explain. My grin vanished instantly, replaced with a look of horror.

"Mrs Hathaway, _no!_ With no disrespect, didn't you hear my reasons for not approaching either you, or Summer earlier?" I all but shouted at her in my impatience to get across my point, "I refuse to be a burden to anyone." Even though she tried to hide her sigh, I could still hear it due to the intense silence that fell over the kitchen after my outburst. A hand went to forehead, gently massaging the crease between her brows; she was clearly having to think hard about something. Eventually, I grew tired of standing awkwardly beside her, and resumed sitting at the decaying table, waiting anxiously to hear what she had to say. Would she be angered by my speech? Would she inform the staff here of my rudeness? Would she still insist upon my coming home with her? My life could have taken so many different directions at that moment – my head was swimming from all the possibilities.

Finally, it seemed Summer's mother had come to a verdict. "I will have to talk to Mrs Fisher and Ms Holland first," she began in a serious tone that caused me to visibly cringe, expecting the worst in my usual pessimistic way, "But they should have little trouble allowing me to at least fund your private education. After all, I've spent the last five years already paying half your fees each term."

This was completely new to me, and I was unexpectedly filled with rage at my own mother. Throughout the whole ordeal – her drinking herself almost to death, her readily agreeing to dispose of me at Sundale, her using me a crying shoulder at the most inopportune times – I've never felt anything worse than mild annoyance at her. It scared me to know she'd managed to keep this from me for all this time, Nate, and that rapidly turned into detestation. I'd always been aware of the fact that her monthly wage was less than what most Horace Green kids' parents earned an hour, but I'd always assumed that if our finances were _that_ bad, mom would have pulled me from the private school as she did you. Come to think of it, she enrolled you in public school when I was ten, around five years ago, which, if Mrs Hathaway is to be believed, was when mom needed help funding my own education. I'm sorry, Nate, I'm so sorry for how twisted and messed up that woman is.

Being informed of how our family was more disastrous than I'd ever imagined sent me into a state of shock, so much so that I just sat back and zoned out, unaware that papers were being signed, hands were being shook, and my life was being mapped out for me once again. To sum up, Mrs Hathaway had adopted me. I am now indebted for eternity to the scariest (yet still alarmingly caring) businesswoman on the East Coast.

So here I am, writing in you for the last time from my room at Sundale. I think I might miss this dump, just a little, even though I was here for less than six months. Thinking back to my conversation earlier with my now adoptive mother – wow, that feels strange to say – I might seriously start to consider a career in social care. Maybe Cassie will come to me one last time to change the sheets; I'm half hoping she does because, come this time tomorrow, I'll be swamped in the finest silk sheets, probably full of caviar, worrying about the next day, when I would be starting, once again, at Horace Green High. So I'll say goodnight, Nate, for now. I'll write to you soon about my first day back amongst the upper classes.

Love Katie xox

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**A/N **I promise to try, try, _try _and write the next chapter soon. _Promise_.


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